Marlene and her brothers were already there, arranged like a jury. She crossed her legs and tilted her head at me.

“How generous of you to come,” Marlene said. “When do you plan to leave our father’s house?”

I folded my hands to keep them from trembling.

A small wooden box sat on the desk. No will was visible.

The lawyer placed his glasses on his nose and looked from one of us to the other.

“Russell asked that I follow his instructions in order.”

Marlene gave a soft laugh.

“The serving girl gets a souvenir.”

The lawyer pushed the box toward me.

“He wanted you to receive this first.”

Inside were no keys, no money, no jewelry, only a folded letter and an old photograph.

Marlene snorted.

“There it is. Daddy’s last little joke.”

I picked up the photograph. It showed me at the charity dinner, holding a tray, caught mid-laugh. I did not remember anyone taking it, but the charity logo was faintly stamped in the corner.

The letter was written in Russell’s careful hand. I unfolded it with both hands.

“What does it say?” Marlene demanded.

I kept reading. My eyes blurred.

“What does it say?” she snapped again, reaching across the desk.

The lawyer gently stopped her.

“The letter is private. Your father was clear.”